


Whisper In My Ear

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, The Princess Bride References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley’s used to being an influencer, it’s part of his job description. Aziraphale’s only done it once, to Crowley’s knowledge, but it was the one time it mattered the most.





	Whisper In My Ear

“Bugger off.”

“As you wish, Crowley.”

Crowley pushes his glasses down to glare at Aziraphale over the top of them, but of course the angel isn’t mocking him. The angel never mocks anyone. Instead, he’s smiling, a little soft, a little gentle, a little understanding. It’s too much, and not enough. Never enough.

He doesn’t say anything as he sinks back into sulking silence, irritated that Aziraphale is never good for a fight, and grateful his angel understands his moods. Even if Crowley never quite understands them himself.

\-----

“Really, Aziraphale?” He glances around the bookshop, which has become more of a hoarders’ den because he’s fairly certain Aziraphale hasn’t actually sold a book in months, though he continues to bring new ones in. “You really,  _ desperately _ need this, what is it, sorcerer’s compendium?”

“I most certainly do. The Duke has specifically requested it.” Aziraphale’s voice is haughty, but his expression is pleading.

Crowley rolls his eyes, which Aziraphale can actually see because Crowley has finally gotten comfortable with taking his glasses off as soon as he enters the shop. “Fine, angel, I’ll do it. But you owe me.”

Aziraphale beams at him, hands clasped at the small of his back as he lifts up briefly onto his toes and then settles back down, just a small gesture to express his pleasure. “As you wish.”

Crowley isn’t sure when he started doing that, or why, but he rather likes it.

\-----

“Beelzebub is sending me to France. Wants me to stir up unrest and whisper dissent into the ears of the commoners.”

Aziraphale’s smile dims. “I know you don’t have a choice, but I really wish you didn’t have to.”

“I’m a  _ demon _ , angel. It’s what I do.”

He deflates. “Quite right. Well then, off you go. But, maybe, you could try to get some of the innocents out of the city before it all goes to hell? Literally?”

Crowley softens a little, and nods. “And maybe you could miracle up a generous order of food from an anonymous donor, for the orphanage outside the city. Y’know, to balance out the whole France thing.”

Aziraphale nods, his smile warming until it’s glowing like the sun. “As you wish, Crowley.”

It feels, suddenly, far too intimate. His skin feels tight, and there’s an alarming desire to pull Aziraphale to him. So Crowley does what he does best, and fucks things up.

“ _ As you wish _ ,” he parrots back mockingly, and Aziraphale gives him a frown of consternation. Crowley feels like shit, so he sneers at Aziraphale and stomps out. 

He brings back crepes, but doesn’t apologize. His angel forgives him anyway.

\-----

When the 80s come he takes credit for  _ Flashdance _ and  _ Footloose _ , not because they’re evil but because he claims to be the choreographer’s muse. 

_ The Princess Bride _ , however. That’s all Aziraphale.

Crowley doesn’t realize it at first because it looks too floofy to be of any interest to him. The 80s have been far more entertaining when it comes to the film industry, but the fantastical romances have earned nothing more than his contempt and a hand-wave. Then he learns of Inigo Montoya, and his curiosity is piqued.

It doesn’t take long before he makes the connection between Aziraphale’s favorite phrase of the last few centuries, and Westley’s doe-eyed utterances to Buttercup. It both makes him uncomfortable, and uncomfortably doe-eyed himself. (Not literally, of course, as the snake eyes are fairly permanent, but in theory.)

“Did you ever meet a man named William Goldman?” he accuses, stomping into the bookshop, and Aziraphale blinks.

“Lovely man. American. He spent a bit of time here in the bookshop, in the late sixties or early seventies, I believe, writing one of his books. He said he liked the atmosphere.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “By any chance, angel, have you watched that movie of his?  _ The Princess Bride _ ?”

Aziraphale brightens. “They made a movie of one of his books? How delightful.”

Crowley wants to roll his eyes again, but he doesn’t. “Like you’ve ever thought of a movie as delightful.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s delightful that he’s found success with something he loves so much.” Aziraphale is so prim that Crowley wants to shake him, just a bit, just to watch his feathers ruffle.

“We’re going to see it. My treat,” he snaps, when it looks like Aziraphale might argue with him. Aziraphale pauses for a moment, then nods.

He ceases any measure of protest when Crowley buys him a large bucket of buttery popcorn and a Coke. Aziraphale almost giggles when the bubbles of carbonation hit his nose, and waxes poetic about the effervescence. 

Crowley does not find it charming. He  _ doesn’t.  _ (He does.)

He sneaks looks at Aziraphale every time Westley murmurs those three soft words, and feels a sense of gratification at the way Aziraphale flushes and peeks right back at him. Every time they lock eyes, Aziraphale snaps his attention back to the movie, and Crowley hides a smile behind another handful of popcorn.

It’s not far into the movie, but Crowley can feel Aziraphale stiffen the moment the narrator says, “That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘as you wish’, what he meant was, ‘I love you.”

Crowley, very heroically, resists the temptation to turn and study Aziraphale’s reaction to the lines. Instead, he continues to watch the movie, which he’s seen enough times to have nearly memorized, and lets Aziraphale enjoy the remainder of it.

Aziraphale is, quite miraculously, utterly silent as they leave the theater and slip into the Bentley. Crowley sits, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, and waits patiently while Aziraphale sorts through his thoughts.

“I spoke of you, sometimes, to Mr. Goldman.” He pauses. “Well, if I were to be completely accurate, I would have to say I spoke of you rather frequently.”

It’s not that Crowley hadn’t suspected it, but the blunt affirmation takes him slightly off guard. “So I’m the bossy Buttercup in this scenario?”

Aziraphale lets out a peal of laughter. “Oh, heavens no! Never bossy, my dear.” He considers for a moment. “But you  _ have _ been… well.” Color suffuses his face and he darts his gaze away from Crowley’s patient, understanding one. “Oblivious?”

For fuck’s sake. “ _ I’ve _ been oblivious? Angel, I’ve been mooning after you for millenia!”

He hadn’t meant to admit it like that, but. Well. “If your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.” He murmurs the words, watches fondly as Aziraphale grows more flustered, unable to look at Crowley but not sure where to let his gaze land. “Do I still go too fast for you, angel?”

The reminder has Aziraphale’s gaze finally finding his, and his nerves appear to settle. His soft eyes roam Crowley’s face lovingly. “Maybe, just a touch.” He tentatively reaches his hand out towards Crowley’s side of the vehicle, hesitating until Crowley drops one hand from the wheel to his thigh, palm up. Aziraphale slides his hand into Crowley’s, beaming when Crowley twists his fingers through his angel’s. “But perhaps it’s time I learned how to speed up, too.” 

Crowley lets a little smile play around his lips as he whispers, “As you wish.”


End file.
